The Poems of Henry Kendall | Page 7

Newtown, Sydney, New South Wales.
January 21, 1862
To the Editor of the "Cornhill Magazine".
Sir,
Will you oblige me by reading this letter, and the accompanying verses? Remember that they will have travelled sixteen thousand miles, and on that account will be surely worth a few moments of your time. I think that there is merit in the verses, and have sent them to you, hoping that you -- yourself, will be of the same opinion. If one can be selected -- one up to the standard of the `Cornhill Magazine', insert it, and you will be helping me practically. I do not hint of pecuniary remuneration however, for your recognition would be sufficient reward.
Let me say a few words about myself: I was born in this colony; and am now in the nineteenth year of my age. My education has been neglected -- hence you will very likely find that some of these effusions are immature. At present the most of my time is occupied at an attorney's office, but I do not earn enough there to cover expenses; considering that I have to support my mother and three sisters. I want to rise, and if my poems are anywhere near the mark you can assist me by noticing them.
They recognise me in this country as the "first Australian poet". If the men who load me with their fulsome, foolish praises, really believed {that I have talent (crossed out)} in my talents, and cared a whit about fostering a native literature, they would give me a good situation; and I should not have to appeal to you.
If one of the poems is found to be good enough, and you publish it, someone here will then surely do the rest. On the other hand if nothing can be gleaned from them, let the effusions and their author be forgotten. Hoping that you will not forget to read the verses, I remain
Yours, Respectfully, H. Kendall.
Poems and Songs
The Muse of Australia
Where the pines with the eagles are nestled in rifts,?And the torrent leaps down to the surges,?I have followed her, clambering over the clifts,?By the chasms and moon-haunted verges.?I know she is fair as the angels are fair,?For have I not caught a faint glimpse of her there;?A glimpse of her face and her glittering hair,?And a hand with the Harp of Australia?
I never can reach you, to hear the sweet voice?So full with the music of fountains!?Oh! when will you meet with that soul of your choice,?Who will lead you down here from the mountains??A lyre-bird lit on a shimmering space;?It dazzled mine eyes and I turned from the place,?And wept in the dark for a glorious face,?And a hand with the Harp of Australia!
Mountains
Rifted mountains, clad with forests, girded round by gleaming pines, Where the morning, like an angel, robed in golden splendour shines; Shimmering mountains, throwing downward on the slopes a mazy glare Where the noonday glory sails through gulfs of calm and glittering air; Stately mountains, high and hoary, piled with blocks of amber cloud, Where the fading twilight lingers, when the winds are wailing loud; Grand old mountains, overbeetling brawling brooks and deep ravines, Where the moonshine, pale and mournful, flows on rocks and evergreens.
Underneath these regal ridges -- underneath the gnarly trees, I am sitting, lonely-hearted, listening to a lonely breeze! Sitting by an ancient casement, casting many a longing look Out across the hazy gloaming -- out beyond the brawling brook! Over pathways leading skyward -- over crag and swelling cone, Past long hillocks looking like to waves of ocean turned to stone; Yearning for a bliss unworldly, yearning for a brighter change, Yearning for the mystic Aidenn, built beyond this mountain range.
Happy years, amongst these valleys, happy years have come and gone, And my youthful hopes and friendships withered with them one by one; Days and moments bearing onward many a bright and beauteous dream, All have passed me like to sunstreaks flying down a distant stream. Oh, the love returned by loved ones! Oh, the faces that I knew! Oh, the wrecks of fond affection! Oh, the hearts so warm and true! But their voices I remember, and a something lingers still, Like a dying echo roaming sadly round a far off hill.
I would sojourn here contented, tranquil as I was of yore,?And would never wish to clamber, seeking for an unknown shore; I have dwelt within this cottage twenty summers, and mine eyes Never wandered erewhile round in search of undiscovered skies; But a spirit sits beside me, veiled in robes